


Crossing The Line

by WetSammyWinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, M/M, Possessive Dean, Pre-Slash, Serial Killer Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-05-17 20:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5884573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, Sam could take care of himself. But guys like that? Skeevy douchebags flocked to his little brother like ants to the sweetest honey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean paused as he raised the beer bottle to his lips. He spied Sam across the room, sitting at a high top in the back of the bar, his high school homework spread out before him, chewing on a pencil as he concentrated on an essay about Grover Cleveland of all things.

He hated bringing Sam to dive bars like this but the motel manager was sketchy and greasy and had been tracking Sam since they arrived in town. When the dirtbag made a comment this afternoon to Sam about their dad leaving town, Dean knew that he had to bring his little brother along.

Sure, Sam could take care of himself. But guys like that? Skeevy douchebags flocked to his little brother like ants to the sweetest honey. 

Putting down his beer, Dean finished the final shot, knocking the eight ball in with a flourish and collecting the cash from a redneck who still didn’t realize he had been had.

Dean’s eyes were drawn back to Sam. At sixteen, he finally got the growth spurt that put him at the same height as Dean, but with a slenderness his older brother never had. Sam’s coltish legs ended in a pair of dirty white Converse high tops whose rubber tips scuffed absently along the floor before tucking into the rungs of the bar stool.

That’s when Dean noticed the guy. Cowboy boots and belt buckle. Tall with dark hair sweeping away from the sharp features of his face. Another skeevy douchebag eyeballing Sam. The Belt Buckle guy pushed away from the bar with two beer bottles dangling from his hand and began walking over to his little brother.

When Belt Buckle touched Sam’s arm to get his attention, Dean was there in a heartbeat. He yanked the guy away from Sam, arm wedged up high behind his back, strained to the breaking point, and walked him through the back door of the bar, while nodding at Sam to stay put at the table.

Dean only took a few steps into the alley before slamming Belt Buckle’s head against the brick wall. It bounced in such a satisfying way that Dean slammed it twice more before throwing the guy to the ground. When the douchebag rolled over, Dean was happy to see the bloody ridges along his cheekbone, a perfect imprint of the dirty brick wall. 

“You don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.”

The man’s dazed eyes looked up at Dean in surrender, but surrender wasn’t what Dean was looking for. He wrapped his hands around Belt Buckle’s neck, pushing his thumbs into his larynx. The man who had given up the fight began to struggle when he realized that Dean wasn’t going to stop. 

While it takes only 15 seconds for someone to lose consciousness when being strangled, it takes about two minutes to kill them. It takes commitment and strength to not walk away before the job’s done. Luckily, Dean’s got both. As Dean continued to apply pressure and Belt Buckle began to fade, his mind wandered to how he needed to get Sam something to eat tonight, how they needed to fill the Impala with gas tomorrow, how he should pick up another bag of salt from the hardware store for their supplies.

“Dean?“ 

He glanced over his shoulder at the shadow standing in the back door of the bar. His little brother’s messy halo of hair was backlit by the yellow light from the open door, his young face unreadable in the shadows. He could see Sam’s fingers clutching nervously at the edge of the door.

“Dean, do you mean that?”

“Mean what?” Dean stood, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

“That I belong to you?”

“Always have, Sammy. Always will.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stubbed out the cigarette with his shoe, the embers still glowing red for a moment before dying out in the pitch black night. His eyes focused again on the lighted window of the laundry room across the motel parking lot.

He didn’t have to be inside to see Sam. In his mind’s eye, Sam was sitting on top of the cabinet next to the dryer, a book in his hands. Always a book. His brother was a smart kid, a special kid, growing into a man at sixteen.

As he leaned against the cinder block wall, Dean waited and watched.

Sam had been jumpy since witnessing how Dean dealt with Cowboy Douchebag in the alleyway behind the bar last night. Earlier that morning, he slipped out of their motel room, backpack high on his shoulder, not to be seen again until right before dinner. As they ate, those cat-tilted eyes shifted restlessly around the room, landing anywhere but on Dean. When Sam cleared the table and said he needed to do laundry, Dean offered to carry the basket but his brother refused.

The two of them had a moment behind that cowboy bar. Looking into Sam’s eyes as he stood up, he felt a seismic shift between them. All the broken parts of Dean, the blankness he tried so hard to dress up with a coat of charm for other people, were understood. And in that moment, he felt loved.

But now the moment was gone and Sam was pulling away, asking for space. Dean would give it to him - it was important for a boy to have time with his thoughts, to figure out the world and his place in it. Which would always be right next to his big brother.

In the meantime, Dean would watch and wait. He had to. Sam’s innocence was a fragile kind of light that needed to be protected and kept close. It was the kind of light that attracted the dark, pulled perverted little cockroaches from their black corners of this world, wanting to touch Sam with their filthy feet and dirty wings.

Cowboy Douchbag was one of those. So was Chuck, the slimy motel manager that ran the night shift here. Insects that needed to be squashed and then scraped off Dean’s shoe. 

He became alert at the slam of a door and footsteps on gravel. It meant only one thing - it was show time. 

A middle-aged man, slightly balding with a name tag on his right breast, came into sight. Dean could practically smell the flop sweat on Chuck’s brow as he scanned the parking lot, skipping over the shadows where Dean stood, before he ducked into the laundry room.

As Dean pushed away from the wall, he reached into his jacket pocket. The butterfly knife flashed silver in the moonlight when flipped open, its blade honed to a wicked sharp edge after he stopped by the motel office earlier. Chuck had been more than glad to keep an eye on the younger Winchester if Dean was stepping out for the night.

Flies to honey. So predictable. That’s what made them easy to trap.

He was only ten feet away from the laundry room door when he heard the commotion inside, and picked up speed.

Dean blinked to adjust to the brightness of the room; the smell of bleach and dryer sheets turning his stomach. His eyes urgently searched out his little brother, who was standing in front of the industrial dryer, running one hand through his unruly hair and holding a matching blade to Dean’s in the other.

Matching except for the blood running down the handle of Sam’s knife, dripping onto his hoodie sleeve.

“Sammy, you okay?”

Wide hazel eyes looked up at him, switching their focus from the dead man on the floor with a crimson stain spreading across his chest.

“I wondered what it would feel like.” Sam’s voice was soft, as he rolled the blade between his fingers. “Watching you last night, I wasn’t sure if I could do it.”

The toe of his brother’s Converse sneakers gave a nudge to the dead man’s leg, and Dean noticed a small drop of blood on the white canvas. Sam needed to be more careful next time.

“I told him that I would be here alone, and wondered if he’d come.” His brother’s lip curled up in disdain so beautiful that Dean shivered, seeing the darkness emerge, a photo negative transformation of the light that was previously Sam. “It was much easier than I thought, like killing a mosquito.”

Oh, how the world would tremble at Sam’s feet. At their feet.

“That’s my boy.“


End file.
